


WHAT IS NEEDED

by thoughtsdemise



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Comfort, Fluff without Plot, M/M, Mech/Mech, Trust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-08
Updated: 2016-08-08
Packaged: 2018-08-07 09:38:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7710139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thoughtsdemise/pseuds/thoughtsdemise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ratchet returns home to his shared hab suite at the end of the day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	WHAT IS NEEDED

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SparkBeat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SparkBeat/gifts), [TheAirCommand](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheAirCommand/gifts).



> Dedicated to the aircommander and sparkbeat, the bun-dealers.

It had been a long day.  Atomizer and Powerglide had decided to stage an impromptu dare air show over the oil reservoir.  They were still trying to put the fire out.  Magnus was not pleased, and Ratchet was ready to kill any mech dumb enough to even look at him wrong.  Overlord and Tarn would even fear that look.  Ratchet sighs and leans his helm against the hab suite door. His hand a hair's breath from the number pad.

He vents and chuffs, squaring his shoulders.  He would not be cowed by what or rather who might be lying in wait for him.  And he certainly wasn’t blushing, a mech his age did not blush.  Ratchet keyed in the code to the door and readied himself to give a swift knock to any helm that decided it was wise to jump the ex-CMO of the Autobots.

Ratchet blinked as he was not greeted with the usual enthusiasm from his new lover.  In fact he stared at the dark interior of his shared hab suite.  Still uncertain of any waiting to pounce Drifts lurking in the darkness, Ratchet eases his way into the hab suite, keeping the lights off so not to mar his good fortune at not being jumped.

Ratchet activates his infrared programming on his optical sensors, old habits were hard to get rid of for this old stick in the slag.  He scans for any telling shadows and heat signatures. Drift would usually be running supernova when he got off from shift earlier than Ratchet.  The medic was used to being slammed against any available surface and fragged to within an inch of his last vent.  Ratchet scratches at his chin perplexed at the lack of any heat signatures in the living area save for his own and the usual residuals.  Everything was rather cold too.

Not trusting his fragging tired systems and trusting his gut that something had to be up, Ratchet eyed the high-backed couch in front of him.  "Okay, kid," he mutters, "games up."  He leaps at and over the back of the couch.

His face firmly planted on the floor and the loud crash of metal earning a beating on the wall from the mechs next door, the medic swears and struggles to right himself.  Needless to say he was rather unhappy that his leap of got you now had left him empty handed and in more than a bit of pain.

Ratchet sits on the floor behind the couch and pouts even as he hears Drift call his designation from the bedroom doorway.  There is concern in the swordmech's vocalizations, but the medic won't be moved.  He crouched lower in his pout though the growl of his engine gives him away.  He'd let Megatron slag him before he showed himself and face the stupidity of his actions.  And no he was certainly not blushing no matter what it looked like.

Ped steps come near the couch, and Drift calls to Ratchet again.  The old medic finally gives up the goat and peaks over the edge of the couch.  His digits dig into the soft fabric.  The look on his face said it all.  The reluctant turn of his optics away from the curious look in Drift's.  The way his mouth formed a stubborn line.  Sure he might be several millennia old, but he had his moments.  More than he cared to dwell on recently in the company of this particular mech.  Ratchet does start and finally look at Drift when a hand touches his helm.

Ratchet ducks lower to hide the warmth spreading throughout his face plates at the welcoming smile that Drift was sporting.  It didn't help that the swordsmech was carrying that infernal plush of him.  The one Drift insisted he wanted to act as a stand in whenever Ratchet was kept in the medbay past his usual shift.  Ratchet feels as if he is currently trying to swallow his fuel tank.  The way it was currently doing flip flops around his spark was making it hard for him to focus.

A hand catches his attention.  Ratchet glances up at Drift's shining optics.  He finally extracts himself from behind the couch to take the offered hand.  His digits tightening on Drift's as he is drawn into that warm frame.  The plush is set on the couch behind him as two arms surround him. Ratchet nuzzles into the warmth of a familiar scent and sighs.


End file.
